


Day Eight

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Banter, Crack, Doctor Kink, Humor, Isolation, Laughter During Sex, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Roleplay, but also not really, but they make fun of that too, just read the fic there are no tags for it, starts angry at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: Okay, so, John is pretty sure that Sherlock doesn't have a doctor kink. It's more a… clothing-related thing. He still remembers the early days in their dating life, when he found the stash of military magazines under Sherlock's bed, and for a slight second, stressfully wondered if Sherlock was secretly a military nut. The thing is, those magazines weren't of the… sexy type, just plain articles and pictures of camo guns, camo Jeeps, camo clothing— and there it was, a few pages glued together over the military models wearing military gear.If John has to say, he thinks Sherlock has something more of a uniform thing. Are scrubs a uniform, though?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 143
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection





	Day Eight

**Author's Note:**

> I just hope that if this manages anything, is to make you laugh. 
> 
> Seriously, cracky times ahead. Silly boys and all. Enjoy. ;)

Day eight. 

They were sequestered in the flat for more than a week, now. And slowly, slowly, the Great Sex Marathon of 221b had transformed into the next Hunger Games, except that the weapons John had to scramble for in the centre of the field were the damaged bits of his sanity. 

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock wasn't helping.

John had thought that Sherlock would be coping worse than him, but his life seemed to continue as normal as if outside was a world that simply did not exist anymore. He experimented, he played his violin, he read, he "worked on lab reports", he called Irene and complained about the inefficiency of online classes, and he had loads and loads of sex with John. 

After reading three books in three days, John was bored out of his mind.

And then, he'd study, of course.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock wasn't helping.

When all of this began, John imagined himself helping out at the closest hospital, coming back home tired and wrung out every day but happy and with a sense of purpose. Except that the hospital didn't want a bunch of second-year med students disturbing the well-established routine of professional, and that way, John was dismissed. Go study, and come back next year, they said. 

So, John is studying. The online classes are not a big change for him: he has to learn everything by heart anyway, and then take exams, which are done remotely now. The only missing thing is the practical aspect of it all. At uni, he would practise consults with other students, and outside of class hours, with his friends in the program.

He needs to keep up with that, he knows, but the only choice he currently has is _Sherlock_ , and he's not sure he wants to go there again.

Does he have a choice, though?

Walking from the bathroom to the kitchen, he clears his throat. "Sherlock?" 

The violin stops. "Hmmm?" 

"Can you help me out with studying?" 

A pause. "I can _always_ help you out with studying." 

John sighs. "No, really, just studying."

"Is it consults again?" 

"Yeah." 

"Oh," Sherlock draws out. "These are my favourite. Will you be wearing scrubs?"

"I don't have to be wearing scrubs for consults."

"I'll do it," Sherlock says, "if you wear scrubs."

Okay, so, John is pretty sure that Sherlock _doesn't_ have a doctor kink. It's more a… clothing-related thing. He still remembers the early days in their dating life, when he found the stash of military magazines under Sherlock's bed, and for a slight second, stressfully wondered if Sherlock was secretly a military nut. The thing is, those magazines weren't of the… sexy type, just plain articles and pictures of camo guns, camo Jeeps, camo clothing— and there it was, a few pages glued together over the military models wearing military gear.

If John has to say, he thinks Sherlock has something more of a _uniform_ thing. Are scrubs a uniform, though? For Sherlock, it seems like it.

"Fine, I'll wear scrubs," John concedes, because he really, really needs to do this. "But _no_ sex."

"Fine," Sherlock says, way too fast for John to believe him.

Five minutes later, John emerges from the bathroom again, in his scrubs, and sets his medical kit on the table, beside which he spreads a towel. Because there's, like, a 99,99% chance this will end with sex.

"You remember how it goes?" he asks. 

Sherlock steps into the kitchen, barefoot, barely clothed but for a pair of John's boxers and an oversized red jumper that is _also_ John's. Sherlock seems to have two modes: either he's neatly dressed at seven in the morning, or spends the entire day in pyjamas. Stuck at home like this, pyjama days are usually a better sign than hectic activity early in the morning.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock says. He props his hands on the table and jumps as to sit on the towel. "Give me." 

John sighs, again, but hands in his phone. He's got an app for this, made by older med students. It loads a name, an age, and a reason to consult, along with symptoms the person playing the patient needs to describe, with the diagnose John is supposed to make, written there at the end.

He clears his throat and steps away as Sherlock reads what is on the screen.

After two minutes, he steps back into the kitchen, notepad in hand, and shakes Sherlock's hand. "Good morning. My name is John Watson, how can I help you today, Mr…" 

"Mrs Barnaby," Sherlock says, with the voice of a fragile, old lady. 

"Mrs Barnaby," John says, noting the name on his pad. "You don't need to do the voice, by the way."

"What voice?" Sherlock replies, in the voice.

John rolls his eyes. "So, Mrs Barnaby, why are you consulting today?"

"I am peeing a lot."

Okay, he really needs to keep his cool. "How many times a day, would you say?" 

"Around twelve."

John clears his throat and writes that down. "You urinate twelve times per day?"

"Yes, I believe I just said so." 

"All right," John says, the possibilities running through his mind. He should probably check—

"You should check my prostate, Dr Watson."

 _There ya go_. "I believe your prostate is fine, Mrs Barnaby, for the account that _you do not have one_."

Sherlock's eyebrows lift. "How dare you imply such things about your patients, Dr Watson?" 

"Fine," John says. "Mrs Barnaby, this might be a sensitive question, but may I ask what gender you were assigned at birth?"

"I just think you should check my prostate." 

"Can you tell me what colour your urine? Does it smell anything?" 

"I really can't say."

John wants to groan and hit his head against the notepad, but to be honest, even how annoying Sherlock is right now, he'll probably meet his match during his real consults. In fact, this may be the best training he can get. 

"All right, Mrs Barnaby, I will check your prostate, but first, I have to do a general exam." 

Sherlock lifts both of his hands as if to say, _go ahead_.

He opens his bag. "Do you have a latex allergy, Mrs Barnaby?"

"What, no foreplay? You are very fast in business, Dr Watson."

The only answer John can gratify those words is with the whipping sound of the latex gloves as he slaps them on. 

He gets his stethoscope out of his bag and starts auscultating Sherlock, slipping the stethoscope under the baggy red jumper bearing his name. Sherlock's heartbeat is slightly faster than usual, but John thinks the scrubs might be the reason for that — they definitely are for the semi-erection Sherlock is sporting.

He gives a listen to his lungs as well. No trouble with that, of course, except that it might be the case for Mrs Barnaby. If Sherlock memorised the information on the app correctly, this is the time he is supposed to mention if there are any (fictitious) problems of that kind.

Since he doesn't say anything, John moves on with the medical evaluation. He takes out a tongue depressor, and asks Sherlock to open his mouth.

Sticking the piece of wood on Sherlock's tongue, John looks down for a second to grab the small flashlight in his pocket, before feeling some kind of strange traction on the tongue depressor.

He sighs. "Mrs Barnaby, would it be too much to ask you not to fellate the medical equipment?" 

Sherlock gives in, and John takes a look at his throat, before moving to his ears. His nose is nearly pressed to Sherlock's cheek while he peaks into his ears with the help of an otoscope, and sure enough, Sherlock manages to turn his way and smear a kiss at the corner of John's mouth. 

" _Jesus bloody Christ_ , Sherlock, we can have sex later. Hell, we've been having sex for eight days straight now, can you just… let me finish this first?"

"But you're wearing the scrubs." 

"I'll wear the scrubs in bed." 

"But doctors don't work in beds, John." 

"Oh my God, just sit straight and shut up!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, but shuts his mouth and lets John move on with the examination, towards his throat where he feels for his thyroid and lymph nodes. 

And then, almost imperceptibly, Sherlock's knee brushes against John's groin.

"Dr Watson?" 

"Yes, Mrs Barnaby?" John answers, with despair.

"I've thought of another problem I have." 

Oh, maybe Sherlock's willing to cooperate, now. "Yes?"

"I believe my penis tastes funny. Would you check that for me?"

John groans, and lets his head fall against Sherlock's shoulder. He kind of wants to cry. He kind of is popping a boner too. Of all the people out there, John thinks, and it had to be _Sherlock_ ? The one? _His_ one?

"You know you love it."

Yes, because whatever instance there is in this wild, wild world, it's one that created John with the very specific function of being aroused by insufferable people. 

And on that matter, yes, he's found the _one_.

His hand creeps up Sherlock's neck, who yelps when John tugs back at his hair. If Sherlock wasn't fully hard, he is now. 

"Look me in the eye, babe," John says until Sherlock does, eyes wide open from both the shock and the arousal. "I am going to fuck you so hard you'll have no choice but to sit still on that neat little cushion I'll provide for your sore arse, and _let me examine you_."

"Promise?" 

John tugs at his waist, until Sherlock's up on his feet, manhandles him to face the table and pushes him forward until his front rests on the wood. 

"Show me your arse," John orders him.

Sherlock spreads his legs and arches his back. 

"I meant, get those off," he says, as he slips two fingers under the band of Sherlock's boxers ( _his_ boxers), and lets the band slap back against Sherlock's skin. "How do you think I'll be able to examine you if you're still wearing your underwear, Mr Holmes?"

He can't see it, but he's sure as hell that Sherlock is blushing, now. They've never gone far into role-play territory because both of them have always found it a bit silly, but perhaps it's not so bad — once you stop being ashamed of the silly parts.

Sherlock does as he is told, and hooks his thumbs into his boxers, slowly dragging them down his thighs, wiggling a bit to get his cock free, before they fall to the ground.

John steps forward, and when he places a gloved hand on Sherlock's round cheek, he hears Sherlock's breath catching in his throat. "The word?" 

"Lemon," Sherlock says, quickly, knowing what's coming.

He usually the leisure to grumble about how they don't need a safe word, and if it's true that the sex they usually have is pretty tame (though always mind-blowing), John thinks they're better off safe than sorry. And he only asks in very specific occasions. 

Occasions, like this one. 

He raises his hand, and slams it down on Sherlock's left arsecheek. 

Sherlock lets out a noise, and John can only imagine the pretty O shape his lips are forming. Without waiting, he slaps the other cheek. 

"I can't with you, sometimes. You're _insufferable_ ," he grunts. 

"Harder." 

"Fuck you." 

"Spank fucking _harder_ , John." 

He does. Blow after blow, until Sherlock's arse becomes cherry-red. Damn, he wants to eat that. Tonight, perhaps, God knows they have the time for it, but now he's going to be all _doctorly_ and do that bloody prostate exam.

He bites on his lower lip, his left hand holding one half of Sherlock's arse as he spanks the other one last time. From what he can see, Sherlock is biting down on the towel, trying to keep himself — without much success — from doing all those lovely needy whimpers. God, he's leaking everywhere, too. 

"Are you going to stay still?" he asks, as he spreads Sherlock's arse with both hands. 

Sherlock squirms as John passes two gloved fingers down his crack. It's — obviously, Sherlock would say — not a medical procedure, but at this point, John knows how to make a single touch feel like it's part of a usual exam.

"I asked," he repeats, "are you going to stay bloody still while I check your prostate?" 

"Yes," Sherlock breathes out.

One hand still half-spreading Sherlock, he uses the other to fetch a tube of Vaseline from his medical bag. It's a bit of a struggle to open it and get some grease out, but then he's spreading it over Sherlock's hole, trying to make him stay still even though Sherlock wants to push back.

And then he goes for it, gloved hand and all (uh, never done that before), and hooks his finger as to land directly on Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock cries out, and for a second, John wonders if he's come on the spot, before Sherlock slams himself back on John's finger. 

John's hand bites down on Sherlock's shoulder. "I told you to not fucking move."

Sherlock stills. 

John presses in again. "Your prostate is fine, Mrs Barnaby." 

That makes Sherlock snort. 

"Maybe I should check with my cock," he says, as he adds another finger. "Just to make sure." 

"Oh, _please_ , Dr Watson," Sherlock sing-songs, and John knows that the whole angry-sex thing is far behind them now, probably as far as the role-play itself. 

The sound that John's zipper makes splits through the sudden silence.

He slips his fingers out of Sherlock's arse and positions himself behind him. Fuck, he should be sick of sex at this point, but he's harder than ever. Sherlock spreads his legs even more, and looks back, a smirk on his face. 

John grins back at him, and pushes in.

" _Ah_ ," Sherlock lets out, letting his head fall back onto the table.

John gets the gloves off with his teeth, one at the time, before he slips a hand under the red jumper, as to soothe the clenching muscles of Sherlock's back, but doesn't stop the slow, invasive motion of his cock, until he is fully buried in that sweet, sweet arse.

"So, how's the prostate?" Sherlock asks as John starts to move.

Sweet arse, terrible mouth, though, he thinks with a chuckle. 

It takes him a minute or two to find the proper angle, but when he thrusts back, he knows that he's found the right spot. "I declare you in very good health, Mrs Barnaby." 

"Thank you. You are lifting a dark cloud of worries from my thoughts, Dr Watson." 

John snorts and slips out of Sherlock. He doesn't have the time to complain, because John turns him over, and scoots him up on the table again, this time, face to face.

Sherlock hooks his legs behind John's back, as John thrusts in again. He fucks him deep and long, but the pretence is far gone. Sherlock's eyes are locked with his, and the tension in the room has evolved into something else. 

"John?" 

"Yes?" 

"Lose the hat." 

John snorts. "The hat is part of the outfit, you know? I kind of need to wear it." 

Sherlock gives him a look. "This is my fantasy. Shut up and take off the hat." 

John takes off the hat.

He brings Sherlock closer to him by tugging at his thighs, making him slide down the table. The jumper rides up at the same time, bunching under Sherlock's armpits, revealing two, peaked, pink nipples.

"John?" Sherlock asks again, with faked guilt. "Do you still hate me?" 

John chuckles and slams his cock forward. "I still hate you very much." 

He bends forward to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Do you think you could hate me… harder?" 

This time, John can't stop himself from outright laughing as he picks up the rhythm. Never say that Sherlock doesn't get what he wants — if John doesn't give it to him, he'll find his way. Riling John up usually works pretty well, but then, John is no fool either. 

He speeds up, fucking Sherlock harder as he bends over him, angling at his prostate. Sherlock weaves his arms around John's neck, bringing him closer, and meets him thrust-for-thrust.

John slams into him, and moans, "Oh! Mrs Barnaby!" 

"Shut! Up!" Sherlock pants out, and sticks a hand on John's face, who catches his thumb, and sucks it into his mouth. "I'm close." 

"Yeah, I can feel that, babe. Touch yourself."

He grabs onto Sherlock — he needs all the leverage he can get if Sherlock insists on _hard_ — and so he lets Sherlock slip his hand between his legs, jerking at his cock. Fuck, it's so pretty, so pink and so hard, and oh, how _wet_ it got when John was spanking him.

"Fuck, Sherlock—" 

"Ah, John— _John_."

"Fuck, are you—" 

"John— John— ah, _John!_ "

He feels him, the moment Sherlock comes, the fluttering around his erection, the quick pulses going through Sherlock's cock as he pumps out shot after shot of cum—

His orgasm starts to build low in his belly, when Sherlock seizes the stethoscope to his left, plugs it in his ears, and sets it against John's heart. 

"You can come now," he whispers, as if John needed permission. 

And there it is, the most annoying man on Earth, also secretly the biggest romantic of them all.

It doesn't take a lot after that. 

John comes back to himself with his forehead stuck to Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock hands around his neck. They are both panting hard. 

Without a word, they untangle themselves from each other, and John takes a corner of the towel to dry Sherlock off, pressing slow kisses to Sherlock's mouth. Busy answering those, Sherlock doesn't notice anything until John slides his phone back in Sherlock's hand. 

"Next consult," he says. "And you stick to the scenario this time." 

Sherlock groans, but sits up, letting the jumper back down. "Fine." 

John straightens himself, and by the time he's stuffed back into his scrubs, Sherlock seems ready. 

"Good morning. My name is Dr Watson, and you are…" 

"Mr Wells." 

"Good morning, Mr Wells. What is the reason for your visit today?" 

"Well, you see, I am, for an entirely inexplicable reason, somehow smelling of sex. Fortunately, I think that a shower might be the right remedy for that." 

**Author's Note:**

> For the anecdote, such an app exists, at least at my uni. I used to help a bunch of med friends by playing the patient during those "consults", except that they were a lot less sexual than this one. :P Making the voice was funny, though. ;)


End file.
